


night in (always in/always with you)

by choirboyharem



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff without Plot, M/M, One Shot, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 00:21:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20266951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/choirboyharem/pseuds/choirboyharem
Summary: Jerome and Jeremiah have a late-night discussion about adolescent sex.





	night in (always in/always with you)

**Author's Note:**

> you know i’ve got it real fucking bad for a ship when i write anything below an M rating. au in which the bridges were never bombed, jerome never died, jeremiah was still infected, and the two are now living together, scheming all the while.
> 
> (there's a small discussion about csa in here, so just a warning in case that's something that's going to bother you.)

They had been half-asleep and watching nature documentaries at three in the morning when Jerome starting mumbling about how he lost his virginity.

Jeremiah lifted his head from Jerome’s chest, hair sticking to his face. “What?”

”I lost my virginity to a guy who was legally named Chuckles BombBottom,” Jerome repeated, seeming vacant. “That does shit to a kid, y’know? Instead of getting molested by your average John Doe, it’s by a guy who you think of as having balls that squeak the same way a clown horn does. And you have to think about them squeaking and slapping against your tiny little ass while your mother’s busy drinking herself to death on the other side of the door.” 

Jeremiah couldn’t wholly tell if Jerome was serious or not, but he wasn’t smiling. He just watched the TV. Jeremiah propped his own chin up and looked at him. “Did I know him?”

”Nah, it was a recent recruit. Really dedicated to the family. Really dedicated to clowning. Chuckles was a charmer, alright. He loved long walks on sandy beaches and touching kids. He would’ve been all over you. He liked the ones who didn’t scream. I threw too much of a fit and they fired him and Mom blamed me for tattling ‘cause she wanted to fuck him. Too bad she was about fifty years too old for him.” Jerome gently carded his fingers through Jeremiah’s hair, watching a lioness find herself with her first fresh kill of the day. “What a way to trash the good name of clowns everywhere.” 

Jeremiah touched Jerome's free hand, playing with his fingers. ". . . I was fifteen. It was—he was in my grade, but he was older. Of course. Everyone was, you know. He was quite tall."

"What'd he look like? Can I kill him?"

"He killed himself, as luck would have it," Jeremiah replied. "Right before exams that spring. He was, ah." He didn't want to say  _like you_ , because that was a distasteful kind of weakness and Jeremiah wasn't pathetic enough to voice something like that. He could barely remember the boy's name. Lucas or Leslie or something like that. He'd had more freckles and he'd been decidedly more Irish, but he'd had the same hair color and passion for violence and recklessness and impulsiveness. 

"He was a phase, I suppose you could say," Jeremiah finally muttered, resting his head back against Jerome's chest and running his finger over the back of Jerome's hand, following a tendon. "You know how teenagers are." 

"You lost your virginity when you were fifteen?" Jerome giggled. "Funny, I didn't give you nearly enough credit; I thought you hadn't lost it till, uh, just a couple weeks ago." 

"Oh, Christ, shut up." Jeremiah straightened up and shoved Jerome's shoulder, making him giggle harder and topple over into the sheets and pillows. Jeremiah rubbed his eyes and exhaled, feeling the heaviness from lack of sleep on his face and in his bones. "You're an idiot. At least I wasn't molested by some degenerate who was careless enough to let himself get caught."

"Oh, yeah, I'd say you were. 'Cept I don't bang kids." Jerome blew him a kiss from the other side of the bed. "Just you. Although, y'know what, I haven't been caught yet. We need to sell our sex tape to someone who'll care. You think we can get it on TV? Hijack a signal? We could do it." 

"I'm not making a sex tape with you," Jeremiah snapped at him, feeling color flush his cheeks. Jerome was a lost cause, laughing into a pillow. "I'm not doing any of the disgusting, vile, _dumb_ things you keep insisting I do with you! None of it! I'm not wearing the costumes, I'm not wearing the rubber suit, I'm not putting the ears on, I'm not using the toys, I'm not going to dress up like Bruce—not a second time," he amended, raising his voice to be heard over Jerome's mirth. "Are you listening to me? Do you hear what I'm saying?" 

"Loud—loud and clear, baby boy," Jerome managed, lifting his head. His hair had been growing out lately. It was uncombed and fluffy tufts of it fell over his forehead. "It's not my fault you're so _Christian_ in your sexual habits."

"I am not," Jeremiah said through his teeth. "I wish you weren't such an insolent child. It wouldn't matter if I was or not, because you think whatever you believe is Gospel and everyone must follow your word or burn for eternity, no matter how completely stupid it is. It was the same back when we were seven and you were playing with the entrails of birds and rats and it's the same now in the fact that you want me to call you Daddy after sucking your diseased cock in the shower. Do you understand what that's like? It's like being  _waterboarded_ , Jerome."

"Miahhh, you're such a crybaby," Jerome whined, crawling across the bed so he could throw his arms around Jeremiah's neck, nuzzling his cheek. Jeremiah groaned and tried to shove him away, tried to scramble out of Jerome's arms, but Jerome clung even tighter. "What's the matter with a little water torture, huh? What's the matter with a couple of little toys? Don't you like that? Feeling so full?"

"Get off," Jeremiah ground out, turning absolutely pink. "I'm not playing this game."

"You  _looove_ this game. Everybody loves this game." Jerome pressed kisses to Jeremiah's face, down the slope of his nose and underneath his eye and on his forehead and on the softness of his cheek. Jeremiah made an irritable whine, turning his head to block some of it. Jerome caught him on the ear. "'Cause everyone wins."

"I want to go to bed and I want you to leave me alone. I'm tired and I'm sick of you." Jeremiah wrenched himself free and meant to scramble to the other side of the bed, but Jerome snatched his wrist and pulled him down, making him yelp. 

Jeremiah found himself underneath his brother, hands pinned down against the mattress and legs caught between Jerome's. Jerome grinned down at him, so smug that Jeremiah wanted to beat him to a bloody pulp.

"I can make you so sick it'll hurt," Jerome murmured, dipping his head and running his tongue up Jeremiah's neck, gliding over the quickened pulse. Jeremiah closed his eyes and swallowed. No one won, actually, except for maybe Jerome. Jeremiah was definitely losing. Jerome kissed the underside of Jeremiah's jaw, hot and lingering as he pushed his hips up against Jeremiah's. This was the shortest game of chicken he had ever played, so if he was really going to lose, he'd lose it stunningly. Jeremiah let out a soft, breathy moan, arching up to meet Jerome.

"There you are," Jerome said, almost to himself, sunny and pleased and puffed-up. Jeremiah gave him a sneer that Jerome covered up, pressing his lips firmly against his brother’s. 

Jeremiah suddenly couldn't see or feel what time it was. It wasn't weighing on him anymore. As truly horrible as Jerome was and how much Jeremiah loathed him, inside and out, there wasn't anything quite like the total abandonment of tension and rage. The dopamine rush was unparalleled. His mind was free, open and waiting for Jerome to pull it apart bit by bit with his fingers. 

Just existing in the same space as Jerome would always be an invitation, like it always had been. Jeremiah was live bait for violence and perversity, bred to be a victim—but even Jeremiah had to admit that was disingenuous. Jerome wouldn’t fuck him if Jeremiah didn’t want to be fucked. 

Even if it was only on a subconscious level. Consent was a rather nebulous concept. 

“Please, there,” Jeremiah whispered, tilting his head up so Jerome could kiss and bite that one sensitive spot on his throat, the one just above his shirt collar. “Please, please.” 

Jerome laughed quietly and Jeremiah felt the sound and the heat against his skin. “Slut.” His teeth sank in and Jeremiah keened, fingers twisting in Jerome’s hair, mussing it beyond repair. 

Jeremiah would happily be a victim, if he could be permitted to call himself such a thing. And he probably was. Of Stockholm Syndrome, maybe. 

And maybe that was just fine. As the TV flickered in front of them and Jeremiah could release his tentative grip on reality, he felt like it could be fine. They were doing well. 

They were doing very well, Jeremiah thought, relishing in the taste of blood in his mouth from Jerome’s kisses, fingers tearing at stolen clothes, his heart tearing at his ribcage. They were doing very, very well and Jeremiah thought there wouldn’t be a problem with them staying like this forever. Entwined and tangled and dripping red, slipping into each other in their sameness, this was what they’d always been destined for anyway. 


End file.
